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Can it be chat modesty may more betray Our sense than woman's lightness?
William Shakespeare
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William Shakespeare
Age: 51 †
Born: 1564
Born: April 26
Died: 1616
Died: April 23
Actor
Dramaturge
Playwright
Poet
Stage Actor
Writer
Stratford-upon-Avon
Warwickshire
Shakespeare
The Bard
The Bard of Avon
William Shakspere
Swan of Avon
Bard of Avon
Shakespere
Shakespear
Shakspeare
Shackspeare
William Shake‐ſpeare
Sense
May
Chat
Lightness
Modesty
Betray
Woman
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Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine That cravens my weak hand.
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Virtue and genuine graces in themselves speak what no words can utter.
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T'is true: there's magic in the web of it.
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Hide not thy poison with such sugar'd words
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As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown.
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My heart is turned to stone I strike it, and it hurts my hand.
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I am not of that feather, to shake off my friend when he must need me
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But yet I'll make assurance double sure, and take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live.
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Who can be patient in extremes?
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I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.
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O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven keep me in temper I would not be mad!
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Tis a blushing shame-faced spirit that mutinies in a man's bosom. It fills a man full of obstacles. It made me once restore a purse of gold that (by chance) I found. It beggars any man that keeps it.
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'Tis pride that pulls the country down.
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The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which.
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Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod.
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Cupid is a knavish lad, Thus to make poor females mad.
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The evil that men do lives after them the good is oft interred with their bones.
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Full many a lady I have eyed with best regard, and many a time Th' harmony of their tongues hath into bondage Brought my too diligent ear for several virtues Have I liked several women never any With so full soul but some defect in her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed, And put it to the foil.
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